


The Jewel

by trollmela



Series: Lingering [9]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:56:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trollmela/pseuds/trollmela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros and Maglor hear rumours about the Arkenstone forcing them to travel to Erebor to see the jewel for themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jewel

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the Lingering series; directly related to “Spite”
> 
> My thanks goes to mangacrack for giving me this idea.

Maglor would be the first one to admit that he no longer kept up with Middle-earth’s events. He had had enough of that. Instead, he dedicated himself to his music as much as he still could with a badly burnt hand. Mainly he wrote songs that he dictated to an apprentice minstrel. His other pastime was keeping up correspondence with Elrond and his daughter Arwen. Thus he was usually the last one to hear rumours, but he was content with that because Maedhros was typically the first.

Even without hearing what exactly set Maedhros off, he noticed when his brother became restless and received and sent more messages with his pigeons than normal. He stayed awake longer, often standing out on the battlements looking for the return of one of his birds. Maglor became truly worried when Maedhros skipped more meals than usual. It did not escape his attention either that his brother had his sword newly sharpened and his armour polished.

It had been a while since Maedhros had last ridden out with war on his mind — in fact, Maglor could pinpoint it to the time after Elrond’s wife Celebrían had left for the West, and Maedhros, he, and their men had hunted orcs in the mountains to avenge her tortures.

Maedhros was waiting for something, a message perhaps, and once he was ready, Maglor knew, Maedhros would let him know. The bard did not like waiting much when it could mean life or death for one of his family.

The wait ended at last with Maedhros bursting through his door one morning while Maglor was still brushing his hair. Maedhros looked frustrated, his face drawn into a deep scowl.

“Brother, I need to speak to you,” he announced too loudly for the small chamber.

“Speak,” Maglor replied, serenely continuing to brush his hair, only watching his brother in the mirror. Of all their brothers, he had always been the one with the calmest disposition. He did not plan to change now when there was obvious need for a clear-thinking head.

Maedhros was not content with being unable to look his brother in the eye. He leant next to Maglor against his vanity and crossed his arms over his chest.

“There are rumours from Erebor. They found a jewel there, deep in the earth. It is said to be without equal, shining as brightly as a star. Some even say it is one of the Silmarilli returned. _My S_ ilmaril.”

Maglor put down the brush. That would indeed explain his brother’s behaviour the last couple of weeks. This was serious. His heart abruptly left its place to rise into his throat.

“Do you have confirmation? Proof?”

“Nothing.” Maedhros shook his head, his scowl deepening. “I tried, but none know. For all we know, it could be the dwarves bragging... I must see for myself-“

“You mean _we_ must see for ourselves!” Maglor interrupted him, his voice grave.

The Silmaril returned! What a thought!

“Is it even possible?” he inquired.

Unlike his brother, Maglor knew exactly, where Maedhros had thrown the Silmaril and nearly himself into a chasm, although the area had been new to him, full of new rivers, springs, valleys and mountains after the War of Wrath. Maglor knew that that place was far from Erebor. And yet, and yet...

Streams of hot fire lined the deepest places of Endor like rivers. Could one of those streams have carried the Silmaril away, far beneath their feet, and eventually turned into cool stone with the jewel still in its breast?

“I don’t know!” Maedhros cried with frustration, his arms flying apart.

Maglor caught one of them in a tight grip. “Then we must find out,” he said grimly.

He dreaded it. He feared it even. He had thought all the jewels gone for good, and it had been a relief for him. Yes, he longed for them, like his brother did, at times so much it hurt. But they were far away where none could take them, and none could drive the last sons of Fëanor to do more evil on a quest to regain them. If one jewel had indeed returned, then Eru help Middle-earth and the dwarves of Erebor.

 

* * *

 

Elrond knew before they even arrived why they were passing through Imladris and where they were going. So did the rest of the valley. Erestor and Glorfindel looked grim, Elrond and Arwen sad, and the twins hid their thoughts behind impassive masks.

Maglor had entertained the thought of avoiding Imladris entirely, but Maedhros had been against it because the road through the valley was by far the safest and best route. They both knew that Elrond would not support their cause, and Maglor would have liked to protect him from any knowledge of it, but Maedhros was not as considerate—not in this.

They spent very little time in Imladris, just long enough to have a bath, get a good night’s sleep, and acquire provisions for the next part of their journey.

They left Imladris behind, not realizing that Elrond was following them with his sons, Glorfindel, and a small army in tow. The sons of Fëanor were too preoccupied with their quest to consider it, but Elrond felt that he owed it to his ancestors and Middle-earth to prevent history from repeating itself. Never again could there be war among the free folk, not while Sauron was still not wholly defeated.

Maedhros and Maglor rode through Mirkwood, the forest dark and deathly silent around them. Not a leaf stirred, and yet they always felt watched. They ignored the feeling and the path to King Thranduil’s fortress and eventually arrived in Dale.

By then, night had fallen, so they went to an inn and rented a room. They were restless, and sleep avoided them entirely. They waited just long enough for the first rays of the sun to climb above the horizon and for the call of Erebor’s horn to announce morning and with that the opening of its gate for daily business.

Their reception was predictably grand. Even today during peacetime there was no love lost between elves and dwarves, and few dwarves cared to make a difference between Noldor, Sindar and other elven peoples. The guards glowered at them, something which was completely lost on Maedhros who rode tall, grim and utterly silent next to Maglor in his gleaming armour.

Even Maglor had trouble finding honeyed words and polite platitudes. They were so close...

He managed to say enough that they were admitted entrance. Thrór made them wait, of course. Maglor was not surprised. Maedhros fingered the hilt of his sword. He seemed more comfortable with it than Maglor was with his. It had been too long for the bard since he had worn one around his waist. Maedhros at least still sparred as regularly as he was able.

Maglor distracted himself with the idlest of thought, and the simplest of sights. He tried to be interested in the different braids the dwarves wore, the tools and weapons they carried as they walked to and fro. Maedhros’ irritated look and a barely bit back snarl showed Maglor that his brother had also noticed how freely dwarves were admitted into the throne chamber ahead of them.

At last a grim-looking dwarven guard beckoned them inside. He muttered something in Khuzdul beneath his breath that Maglor did not have the mind to understand. Even amid the great show of ceremony, the first thing they saw was the jewel. It was bright, like a beacon illuminating the cavernous hall, the stone reflecting the light off dozens, perhaps hundreds, of facets.

Maglor’s heart seemed to stop beating, and for an instant he wondered whether he would die here in this dwarven hall, dropping to his knees that were already feeling weak and then onto his face because his heart had simply stopped beating.

Then the moment passed, and he could breathe again. He heard Maedhros exhale next to him. Thrór, the fool, was speaking. Maglor heard himself reply, so apparently he was still aware on some level.

It was not their stone. It was not a Silmaril. Maglor could have wept with relief, or perhaps anguish.

He honestly did not remember the rest of their stay. Maedhros recovered astonishingly quickly and carried the conversation on himself. Maglor no longer paid any attention to any of it.

Thankfully, they left quickly after that. They returned to their inn, where they fell on their beds and slept until a maid knocked on their door. They visited the famed markets of Dale, walking so closely together their arms and elbows knocked together now and then. Maedhros saw some woodelves nearby and pulled Maglor out of their sight.

They rested for a few days until Elrond and his party came looking for them and found them eating at the shores of the Long Lake. Maglor indulged himself and went to the markets again with Elrond’s twins, buying trinkets none of them truly needed. They looked less like warriors this time than the way they had when he and Maedhros had came through Rivendell some weeks ago, and more like the young twins he remembered from so long ago, or another set of twins even further back in time. It was a summer day in the Third Age, and life did not seem so bad. Nevertheless, he was glad when they left Dale. Maglor was homesick.


End file.
